You're never too young or two old to admit fault.

My son turned eight last week. His birthday is always emotional for me. I don't know if it's just because he's my first born, or that it was an unplanned pregnancy, or that it's a reminder that we have no control over the clock. How can eight years pass so quickly? Regardless, the day came and went. Like every year, I found myself daydreaming about that day. Details that I play over again and again as I'm afraid that if I don't, I'll forget. I hugged him extra tight that night. Four days later, after his birthday party with six other eight and nine year olds, and then a sleepover for someone else's birthday, I knew he was tired. I was tired. But there was work to be done. I sent Caden and his sister off to clean their shared bedroom and then the playroom. Much arguing ensued. Hitting occurred. What should have taken 15 minutes was taking an eternity. Lately I've been trying to stay out of it. Pick your battles. Make them figure things out. Problem solving seems to be a lost art these days. But I can only take so much. I hate to admit it but I eventually yelled. Like the kind of screaming where you feel the veins in your neck bulge, your face gets hot and you immediately worry that the neighbors can hear you. I was angry. My son didn't miss a beat; returning the rage and calling ME names. I tried being an adult about it. But it happened again. So I spanked him. His mouth kept running. So I fed him a little soap. Bawling now, he still managed to yell at me. So I made him feed himself some soap. Horrid sobbing sounds began and I sent him to his room to calm down. Ending it with he could come speak to me after he calmed down. Minutes passed. More bawling. More like wailing. I waited for him to fall asleep but rest was not coming. Eventually he calmed down, I calmed down and we all sat and talked about it. I always start these conversations with how much I love them and that even if I lose my patience, it does not reflect the amount of love that I feel for them. I apologized for using some choice words. Then I asked why he felt it was appropriate to speak to me in that way. He didn't know why. He never does. More than likely it boils down to a young boy who is trying to figure out how to deal with these new emotions. His instinct is to become physical. But he has a soft heart so he often reverts to using words instead. It's frustrating; I can see it on his face. After a while, we decide to blow off some steam and play catch outside. The day went on and it was as if nothing happened earlier that day. But at night and again this morning, he came to me with a big bear hug, an apology in his eyes and kind words. I know he loves me. I know there is no permanent damage. But it still hurts. My words, not his. My hope is that my apology heals him and shows him that it's okay to apologize.